


Reminders Left Over

by luxover



Category: Football RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Pep and Bojan get outed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminders Left Over

Pep sits back on his heels and watches Bojan breathe, his chest rising and falling, his lips parted and slick with spit. There’s dried come on his stomach and Pep likes that he doesn’t know if it’s his or Bojan’s or both of theirs.

“You’re beautiful,” Pep says, and he spreads his fingers out along the smooth skin of Bojan’s thigh.

Bojan doesn’t blush, but he smiles and says, “Come here,” and reaches a hand out lazily. Pep takes it in his own and kisses Bojan’s palm, his fingertips, the back of his knuckles. “You’re too far away.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Pep says, and he lowers himself down on the bed, his body flush against Bojan’s. He kisses Bojan then, slow and with too much tongue and with all the time in the world. Bojan’s fingers dig into his hips hard enough to leave bruises, but that’s okay, Pep likes that, likes having reminders left over of them and what they’ve done and what they are.

Pep snakes a hand between them, wraps his fingers around Bojan’s cock and gives a firm stroke, just one, just enough for Pep to get a response from Bojan because he knows exactly how Bojan likes it. And when Bojan groans, arches into the touch, Pep smiles and laughs a little, says, “You think you’re ready for more?”

He jerks Bojan off, nice and slow, bringing him to the edge again and again before actually letting him come. Pep likes that, likes getting to watch as Bojan’s hair gets matted to his forehead with sweat, likes watching the line of Bojan’s neck as he throws back his head and how Bojan tries—tries so hard—to keep his eyes open and watching Pep until it all finally becomes too much and they squeeze shut as he comes. Pep likes that.

Bojan reaches out for Pep and Pep says, “No, hey. It’s okay.”

“But I want to,” Bojan says sleepily. “I want to make you feel good again.”

And at that Pep laughs, laughs and says, “Another time, Bojan. I’m not as young as you, you know.”

“Always holding that over me,” Bojan says, and his smile isn’t as big as it is on the pitch or when he’s with Messi and Piqué, but it’s real and it’s for him and so Pep smiles back.

 

They’re careful, of course they’re careful. Pep’s married and Bojan’s dating and they’re both in the media spotlight all the time, so they don’t really have much of an option. Pep gets used to it quickly, gets used to the sidelong glances and the notes stuffed in jacket pockets and the excuses. At first it was hard for him—not for him to deal with it, that was always easy, but it was hard for him to make Bojan have to deal with it, too. He’s young, shouldn’t have to hide anything like this, Pep reasoned. He told Bojan as much, but Bojan only shook his head and said, “I want  _you,_  Pep. And if I have to give up dinner dates and movies to have you, well. I will. I’d give up a lot more than that.”

And something in that—something in that made Pep’s throat tight, made it hard to breathe, but Pep told himself it was just that his tie was too tight and excused himself to step out for some fresh air.

 

“Leo’s hurt,” Bojan says. They’re stretched out on Pep’s bed; Cristina and the kids aren’t at home.

“I know,” Pep says. “I was there.”

“Oh, I know,” Bojan says quickly, and Pep knows what’s coming, can see it a mile away, almost as clearly as he can see Bojan prop himself up on his elbow, almost as clearly as he can see Bojan push the hair out from in front of his eyes.

“You know, huh?” Pep asks, and Bojan smiles, shoots Pep a look.

“I just—” Bojan says. “I was just thinking that, with him out—I’m your man, Pep.”

“You’re always my man,” Pep says.

“Oh, fuck you,” Bojan laughs. “You know what I mean.”

“And if I don’t?” Pep asks. Bojan bites down hard on his shoulder.

“Then I can show you,” he says, and Pep’s already hard. Bojan takes Pep’s hands, guides them up over his head and wraps his fingers around the headboard. “Don’t move, okay?” he asks, and Pep finds it endearing that even when he’s trying to be in control, Bojan feels the need to make sure that it’s okay.

“Okay.”

“Did I tell you that you could talk?” Bojan asks. “No. So shut up.”

And Pep tries to.

 

They play Sporting Gijon next.

Before the match, as everyone’s filing into the locker rooms, Bojan says to him, “I love that sweater. I fucking love that sweater on you.”

Afterwards, after Pep’s subbed Bojan out, goalless, Bojan doesn’t say anything.

These things happen, Pep tells himself, but he doesn’t sleep well that night.

 

It all blows over, like things with Bojan tend to do, and they don’t talk about it the next day, or the next, or ever, really. Bojan didn’t have a  _great_  game, not really, but that’s football. Sometimes you’re on and sometimes you’re not.

Later that night, Pep tells his wife that he’s going to a bar with some of the technical staff and not to wait up, and then he goes to Bojan’s apartment instead. When he gets there, he throws Bojan against the wall by the front door and kisses him, slides one of his knees in between Bojan’s and bites down on his lips and the soft skin of his neck.

“Hello to you, too,” Bojan laughs, and then moans when Pep grinds his hips. Pep loves that sound, grinds his hips again just to see if Bojan will make it again.

He fucks Bojan on the floor by the kitchen, their shirts still on and their pants around their ankles. The tile is hard on his knees and Pep imagines it’s just as bad for Bojan, even though he’s used to getting thrown around on the pitch.

It’s nothing like they’re used to. It’s not soft and unsure like when Bojan first topped, and it’s not long and drawn out like when Pep’s usually in charge. This time it’s hard and rough and  _new._  Pep likes it, can tell that Bojan does, too.

Afterwards, they curl up on the couch together and watch a replay of a Barcelona match from 1993. Pep sees himself on screen, back when he still played, back when he was still young.

“You looked good in the blaugrana,” Bojan tells him.

“Thank you.”

 

It happens three days later, and Pep doesn’t know what to do.

 _Pep and Bojan_  are splattered all over the front page, blurry pictures of them kissing taken through Bojan’s living room window. Pep doesn’t know how they got the photos, thought that the drapes were closed like they always were. And there’s a part of him—a small part—that recognizes that out of all the possible reactions Pep had imagined to being outed—because he  _did_  imagine them, of course he did—he feels the only one he never came up with.

“He—he’s not,” Pep tries to tell his wife. “He’s twenty years old, he’s not—”

“And how does that make it any different?” Cristina asks. She’s clutching the newspaper, hands shaking, and the kids are still upstairs, asleep. “We have a  _family_ ,” she says, and Pep—

Pep feels  _dirty_.

 

Pep packs a small bag and rents a hotel room. The cameras follow him, hound him on his way from the door to his car, and he wants to snap at them, to yell at them, to tell them to  _back the fuck up_ , but he doesn’t because all he can think is  _Bojan, Bojan, Bojan._

He ignores all of his calls, the ones from the club and from his family and friends. He imagines how many people must be calling Bojan. He calls Bojan, too, but all he gets is ringing in his ears and, if he waits long enough, Bojan’s voicemail.

 

Bojan sneaks into the hotel late that night, or maybe early the next morning, Pep isn’t really sure. All he knows is that there’s a knock at the door and then Bojan’s there, dressed in all black like he was some kid trying to sneak out of the house. The thought makes Pep’s chest tight.

“Oh, fuck, Bojan—” Pep says, and then Bojan’s stepping forward and hugging him tight, tighter than he’s ever been hugged before, and Pep’s glad for the excuse to stop talking because he doesn’t know what to say anyways.

“This is all so fucked up,” Bojan says as he pulls back, running a hand through his hair. “I hadn’t expected it to ever be this bad.”

“How could you have?” Pep asks. He didn’t expect it either, and he was supposed to be the smart one, the responsible one out of the two of them. He can barely even look Bojan in the eyes and instead stares over his shoulder to the window, to where light from a street lamp is coming into the room through the slats in the plastic blinds.

Bojan sits down on the couch and rests his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. It such a defeated pose, Pep thinks. At least they don’t have to hide anymore; the worst isn’t over but they don’t have to hide anymore, there’s always that.

“So what now?” Bojan asks, and his voice sounds sharp. His eyes are red, but it doesn’t look like he’s been crying. Pep thinks that if it was still a year ago, back when this whole thing started—Bojan would have been crying then, but he’s grown now, changed. Matured.

Pep lets out a loud breath and rubs his eyes with the heels of hands.

“We can—first, we have to talk to the club. And then we can—we can put out a press release and wait until it all just blows over and then our careers can just—”

“You’ve already  _had_  your career, Pep,” Bojan cuts him off. “What about  _me_? What about  _mine_? I’m only twenty, and already—and already—”

And Pep doesn’t know what’s  _already_  because Bojan stops talking, cuts off his sentence with a strangled groan and that much Pep gets, he does. And he wants to sit next to Bojan, thigh to thigh, and he wants to rub his hand back and forth between Bojan’s shoulder blades and he wants to press his face into the side of Bojan’s neck and just breathe, just for now, just for a second.

Instead, Pep just stands there. He can’t help but notice how fast  _we_  turns into  _me,_   _ours_  into  _mine_.

“Manchester United wants me,” Bojan says. “So, I guess I’ll go to England.”

And suddenly—suddenly Pep can’t breathe, because this wasn’t the way he had expected things to go, not at all, not even a little bit. He sits on the opposite end of the couch from Bojan.

“You can’t—you can’t  _leave,_ ” Pep says. “Barcelona needs you,  _I_  need you. I  _love_  you.” And that, right there—the truth comes out, only before he had said it, Pep didn’t even realize it was the truth, hadn’t even entertained the idea.

“I don’t want to leave,” Bojan says, “but I can’t give up football, Pep.”

And Pep wants to say,  _You don’t have to, you can still play here,_  only he understands it, understands the point Bojan’s trying to make. He understands what Bojan’s saying as much as he understands what Bojan’s not.

“Oh,” Pep says, taken aback. “I—oh. Good luck, then.”

“Please,” Bojan says, and he traces the bridge of Pep’s nose, brushes Pep’s cheekbones with the pads of his fingers. “Please don’t be like that.”

He leans forward, kisses Pep on the mouth softly, and when he leaves, he shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.

 

Later that morning, Pep goes home. He struggles through the reporters and into his house where he finds his wife and kisses both of her cheeks and then her mouth, and he tells her, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I love you so much.” Then he hugs her and she hugs back and her hair smells like the type of shampoo that’s been in their shower since the day they married, or maybe even before that, and she cries. And later, as they have sex in their darkened bedroom and as Cristina’s fingers dig into the bruises on his hips left there by Bojan’s, she says, “I love you, too.” And it’s not ideal, not for Pep, but she says it back and that’s what matters in the end.

 


End file.
